


some brightening leaves on darkening days

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brooklyn Boys At Heart Really, Domesticity, Fluff, Giddy Laughter, M/M, Nostalgia, Romance, Schmoop, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, Snuggling, Supersoldiers in Love, quiet moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Never really got to, before,” Steve answers the unasked question. His eyes hadn’t seen the shades, couldn’t pick out the nuances, couldn’t appreciate the splendor. His lungs couldn’t handle the way that winter slipped into the air with too much of the sea inside—a threat with every gasp.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Never really bothered to notice, since.” No point to it, really. Without Bucky, there'd been no color at all.</i></p><p> <br/>Steve and Bucky take a rare, quiet moment to appreciate the changing of the seasons. And to appreciate each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some brightening leaves on darkening days

**Author's Note:**

> The slip from autumn into winter is one of my favorite times of year. This was just a small idea that came while I was walking from the bus and admiring the leaves, and enjoying too-much-sea on the air and just, yeah. One of those things.

It’s been work, and running, and planning and saving and losing: it’s been hour after day after week of non-stop fighting, and it’s only been made bearable because he can look over his shoulder again, he can glance up after a near-shot takes the enemy down at Steve’s back, he can look and see a deliberate flash of metal that wouldn’t be seen if it didn’t want to be seen, if it didn’t want _Steve_ to see it and hear in his head _I’ve got you, I’ve always got you,_ that deep, soft whisper in his ear as close and intimate in battle as it is in their bed. 

It’s been fucking _months_ like this, no breather, and the world’s still standing for it, but they’re stretched thin.

So it’s almost through a haze that Steve wakes that morning, the mattress blissfully too-soft, the gleam of dawn streaming just through the crack of space the blinds can’t cover, glinting metal beautifully just there, just _here_ , wrapped around Steve’s middle and warm where Bucky holds Steve’s body against his own, breathes deep with well-earned sleep at the crook of Steve’s neck: hot and wet and alive and everything Steve thinks he ever wanted, maybe. Everything he never even thought to want.

He’s never understood what the universe saw in keeping him around, back when that was a struggle for every breath; he understands even less, now, what the universe sees in him to give him this: to give him his heart back when he knew what it was to walk around without it, a shell; when he’d know what it meant, what a privilege its weight was in the cold of the world, that the universe would give him that heart back and let him love with all he’s ever seen or dreamt or known: he understands that even less.

Fuck, though; but he’s grateful. 

Still—it’s almost through a haze that Steve sees it, lets it sink in, because they’re here. There’s no fight awaiting them, there’s nowhere to run, to be: just here.

Steve breathes in, so deep, and it doesn’t smell of gunpowder; no sand on the air, or blood on his tongue—just Bucky.

 _God_ ; just Bucky. 

“Mmmm,” Bucky hums, and it’s so sweet, pressed in against Steve’s neck. “Too early, Stevie,” Bucky slurs, left arm twitching, tightening in emphasis against Steve’s chest. “Sleep now.”

Steve smiles, and kisses the top of Bucky's head before burrowing, nuzzling into Bucky’s welcoming, waiting body, his impossible warmth, and yes: too early.

Too goddamn right.

__________________________________________

Steve still rises quicker than Bucky does, when the time comes—long past ten, which is obscene, and it’s beautiful, really, because it’s an indulgence that Steve used to feel he didn’t deserve, but hell: since Bucky’s made it clear that where Steve goes, Bucky follows, here out to forever, Steve’s changed his tune on things like that. Because he’ll tempt what’s worth and what’s been earned if it means Bucky’s the one who gets to wake him up with lazy kisses, never once to Steve’s lips, nips that leave Steve giggling for his ticklish spots, leaning into Bucky’s devil-grin—yes. Yes, Steve will take this, and run with Bucky’s hand in his until they both come apart because Bucky deserves it. Bucky deserves the world.

So when Steve twitches away from Bucky’s one-man assault on the vulnerable space between his ribs, laughter coloring everything, _everything_ in the warm-shaded half-dark that’s all about denying that the day’s begun without them—save that it doesn’t start, not until they say so—but when Steve twitches away with enough force to set himself on the edge of the bed, with enough frantic momentum to send him crashing to the floor with Bucky’s cackling the only thing to cushion his fall as he drags the tangled sheets down with him, Bucky’s still snorting over it, body sprawled unapologetically, entirely content as his chest heaves with laughter, as his eyes squint and tear with pure joy—and Steve stands, and drops the covers back to the bed and just watches, and good god, good _god_ , but he doesn’t know if hearts are supposed to live through feeling as full as his does now. He doesn’t know.

Bucky’s the most beautiful thing in the world, in those moments. Bucky is the world in all ways.

“Asshole,” Steve murmurs, but it’s all affection, pure love. Bucky’s eyes flick open and Steve can see the way he tries to compose himself, but meeting Steve’s gaze, even full of adoration as he knows it is, sends Bucky giggling once again. Steve grabs for a pillow and chucks it at Bucky’s shaking form, to no effect whatsoever.

“I’m gonna make coffee,” Steve says over his shoulder, “meet me on the porch when you can catch your fuckin’ breath.”

He’s met with more laughter, and nothing’s funny, really, but that’s not the point, because laughter doesn’t have to be funny.

Laughter’s just what happens when there’s too much joy to hold in—and Steve, well.

In that case, Steve laughs enough to scatter the coffee grounds, long after he’s left Bucky in their bedroom.

__________________________________________

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Bucky comes up behind Steve, presses the tip of his nose into the base of Steve’s neck and breathes. Steve reaches back, hands Bucky his mug of black coffee, and sips out of his own cup as Bucky takes the mug; Steve reaches down, then, for Bucky’s free hand—waiting for him, always, to twine fingers close as they let their breaths settle into a rhythm, perfectly matched.

Like everything they do; everything they are—this, too, has a dance to it. A knowing.

They never miss a beat.

“Just the leaves,” Steve says into the lip of his mug. It’s an artist’s paradise, so much color: the storms have been forgiving, the season running late and stretching long so that Steve can savor the hues on the trees themselves where they vary and darken and fade, brights and pastels and deep neutrals and it’s breathtaking; it’s an extra shiver in the way that Steve can just stand and watch the soft streams of air shake the perfect painting before him, shimmer soft as he inhales the first hints of damp chill, and breathes out: bracing.

Bucky’s pulse is a perfect counterpoint, grounding; so soft and sure and safe where Steve’s fingertips curl against that wrist, and there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Never really got to, before,” Steve answers the unasked question. His eyes hadn’t seen the shades, couldn’t pick out the nuances, couldn’t appreciate the splendor. His lungs couldn’t handle the way that winter slipped into the air with too much of the sea inside—a threat with every gasp.

“Never really bothered to notice, since.” No point to it, really. Without Bucky, there'd been no color at all.

Bucky breathes out slow, and lets his lower lip catch against the back of Steve’s neck, and that’s bracing, too, in a whole different way.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve breathes out, and his coffee will be cold by now. He’s talking about more than just the trees.

“It is,” Bucky whispers, sets his cup down and reaches around to draw Steve into his chest, to hold tight to both Steve’s hands and settle them strong at Steve’s stomach, feeling the way they both breathe it in: the autumn-teasing winter. The gold-and-green on the trees, like sugar and wine. The way the air tastes different across place, and time. The way the chill on the air isn’t a threat, slides in like a caress, welcome when their bodies are so hot against one another, so close—there’s no hate in it. It’s not an ice that’s inescapable.

And their hands have always fit, like this. And that. _That_.

Steve squeezes those fingers, presses that touch even deeper against his skin as Bucky mouths against his shoulder:

“It really _is_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
